Weathered Past
by Coralfly
Summary: Futurefic - ChloeClark - 'In the seasons to come...'


**Title:** Weathered Past

**Rating:** PG-13

**Spoilers:** Up to 'Covenant'

**Summary: **Futurefic – Chloe/Clark – "In the seasons to come…"

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. 

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**Weathered Past**

Autumn in Metropolis is a lone burnt red leaf tripping through bustling city streets. The leaf gets caught in the blonde tresses of one Chloe Sullivan and when she pulls it out, the leaf crumbles in her palm like yesterday's ashes. There's the slightest hint of chill in the air threatening to get right to the marrow of her; and Chloe pulls the brown jacket tighter across her chest, tugs at the apple green scarf wrapped around her neck. Her steps are quick, staccato, and she's eager to get home. 

The apartment is a layered mess of her current life: books and papers strewn across the carpet in scattered piles, a fish bowl brimming with yellow-tinged water and no fish, the smell of grease from half-finished Chinese take away cartons and last week's pizza, and wilted sunflowers that she doesn't have the heart to throw away. The yellow of the flowers are like the faded tinge of a Smallville life.

She rummages through empty cupboards and an emptier fridge, only discovering the blue plastic packaging of already eaten cookies behind her icebox. Simple, everyday things like grocery shopping have long since occupied the bottom rungs of Chloe's Things To Do list. Sometimes, usually in her moments of stress, she misses knowing there'll be a stash of cookies and candies a hand's grab away underneath her bed. Sometimes she misses the taste of a home cooked meal, even bad home cooking like her dad's. Sometimes… but Chloe's right thumb is pushing the buttons on her phone – the numbers of that good Thai restaurant on Main Street memorized – and she doesn't allow herself to think too much.

Just as Chloe's about to place an order for Thai green curry chicken there are seven rapid knocks on her door, running in such quick succession that it's like they're one large, loud rap. When she opens the door, it's Lois with food and a slightly pissed off look on her face and eyes that can't hide the under layer of (older) cousinly concern.

"I got a tip off that you were back in Metropolis," Lois says as she marches into the apartment and dumps two brown paper take out bags onto Chloe's makeshift coffee table that's really a bunch of old phonebooks stacked tightly together.

"Don't your sources have better things to do?" Chloe snarks back; but sighs a little, resigned to the fact that she will be spending the next few hours listening to another infamous Lois tirade as Lucy likes to call them. Lois, however, calls them 'motherly lectures'.

"They would if you didn't spend your time being so damn elusive. You've been here for two weeks now and you just conveniently forgot to mention it to me. Or, god forbid, get in contact. My use of sources seems to be the only way I can keep tabs on you."

"That's not your job, Lois."

"People worry, Chloe," Lois tells her. And the way Lois' eyes darken as she speaks almost makes Chloe feel guilty. Almost. "You should think about coming home permanently. Settle down. Instead of gallivanting across the world and finding the most life threatening escapades to get yourself embroiled in."

There's no way that Chloe can stop the incredulous snort escaping as she mutters, "That's rich, coming from _you_."

"That's different."

"Oh yes, I forgot, you have Superman," Chloe says bitingly.

From her quick swipe of her perfectly coifed brown hair, Chloe can tell that Lois is mad. "I can't believe you'd even bring him up in our…_this_…that's so uncalled…_unworthy_," Lois indignantly splutters as her hand fumbles into the recesses of her little black handbag and pulls out a cigarette and lighter.

Angry puffs of smoke hang in the air and it is like the silence that has settled in the room. The two cousins are paused in the room mirroring one another; but the beams from the ceiling light hit Lois at all the right angles and she's glowing while Chloe stands in the shadows. And ashes fall to the floor and disappear into the depths of the woolen taupe carpet.

"I'm sorry," Chloe finally says. "That was rude of me. And here you are, kindly bringing me food."

Lois makes the tiniest forward jerk of her head and says, "Let's eat." It's an acceptance of Chloe's apology and an agreement to let sleeping dogs lie…for the moment.

The dinner is nice. The food is tasty. The wine is easy to swallow. They talk about how Sam and Lucy are doing. They talk about the weather. They talk. And say nothing really, so the dinner is nice.

Still, Lois can't resist one last jab at persuasion as she leaves. She is half out the door when she turns to Chloe and says, "You could always come and work at the Planet. Perry would just _die_ if I lured the award winning Chloe Sullivan to our not so humble offices."

"It's not like you're short of awards, yourself. You and Clark."

"Yeah, but your resume is more impressive," Lois says with a half shrug; and from the slight tug of her grey coat, Chloe realizes how much it has taken for her cousin to admit that. "Seriously, there's a job available any time you want it. Perry, himself, has told me numerous times to tell you that."

"I love being a freelance reporter, Lois. I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. I need the freedom. And I wouldn't get that if I stayed in Metropolis and worked at the Planet." It's the first time that Chloe has given Lois – or anyone, for that matter – an explanation as to why she was on the first plane out of Metropolis the day she graduated from journalism school. It is not much of an explanation, not quite the whole truth, but it is the best she has to offer. She hopes that Lois will understand, but Lois doesn't.

"The Daily Planet was your dream, Chloe."

There's something chillingly somber like the autumn night air in Chloe's voice when she replies, "Dreams change."

They're facing one another again but this time Chloe is in the light – harsh, too bright and illuminating. And there's not much Lois can say, so she wrinkles her nose and tells Chloe: "You really should do something about your apartment. It's a mess." And then Lois is gone.

* * *

Later that night when darkness has covered the city and the only source of light comes from fragmented stars and moon, street lamps and lonely cars, Chloe buries herself in the coldness of her bed and dreams. With the pale green quilt pulled right up to her chin, Chloe dreams of things long gone but not forgotten…

_Chloe dreams of winter in Metropolis. Her father's hair dusted white with tiny flakes of ice that melt and trickle down the furrows of his brow. And daddy is glistening. Shiny, glistening daddy. Her small chubby hands – fidgety and inquisitive even then – reach out to trace the shadows of stubble, the weary lines like the bare branches of trees that mark the landscape of his face; he's been working so hard because the days are always long this season. Her hands like the street sweepers that clean the tired roads, clearing the mess of time, and daddy is smiling, refreshed, content._

_The bright, blue woolen mittens he bought her two weeks ago lie crumpled on top of the kitchen bench. Her father helps her unravel the scarf around her neck – the same color blue as her mittens – before he begins puttering around in the kitchen, making clanging, banging noises as he opens doors and rummages about. She sits and watches on the highest chair – little legs dangling off the edge, kicking swings that cut the air in a to and fro rhythm – and fills the hollows of the house with her happy chatter. Chloe tells Gabe all the little treasured truths she's uncovered at school: "Mrs Jameson told us cigarettes were bad today. But I totally caught her and Mrs Mason smoking during lunch. She turned all red."_

_Gabe laughs as she talks and her daddy's eyes are twinkling; and under his gaze she is the smartest, prettiest girl in the whole wide universe. She can do anything, be anything, and she is his everything. Together they don't need a mommy who is quiet like frost. A mommy who folds the fluffy white towels and the soft green flannel of Chloe's night clothes with hard, jagged creases. A mommy who will slip away during the turn of the season, and spring will always be the time for a new life in Chloe's mind. _

_Right now, though, her daddy is making mugs of hot dark bitter chocolate liquid goodness, dropping cubes of pink and white marshmallow into the drinks so that they will be tiny bursts of sweetness that roll down her throat. _

_But young Chloe drinks too quickly and burns her tongue. Burn, burn, burn. And winter smells like her father holding her as cold water swirls across overheated, numb flesh._

_Chloe dreams of almost summer in Smallville. Her father's hair is dusted grey with dirt and grime – he has been spring cleaning the house since the day he was fired. Sweat clings to his cheerless-Kansas-sun-streaked skin; and guilt is the __Kent__'s red tractor threatening to mow her down, mow both of them down. Her hands – slender and not so small now – twist and turn like a fly entangled in a web of Luthor games and deceit. She sees in his face the edges of the future – lips pursed together like buds about to open; that will later flower and wilt in the dry heat of the season to come._

_They stand in the kitchen, a cold dish of Gabe's last night attempt at casserole in between them. Metal scrapes – high-pitched and irritating – against thick opaque white glass as the fork in Chloe's hand hits beyond the bottom of the crusty casserole. When she lifts the fork to her mouth, Chloe tastes overdone chicken, parsley, pepper and a hint of wine. She feels like an adult but she is forever daddy's little girl._

_When Chloe tells Gabe all the terrible truths she's uncovered – losing herself in the endless knots of truths, not lies – her eyes are every color of 'I'msosorrysorrysorrydaddy'. But he holds her tight. Makes her world right. Forgives her trespasses._

_And through the kitchen window she can see the yellow sun turning red as it dips into the horizon. Crimson rays highlight the age lines, time lines, choice lines that devastate her father's face. And in this almost summer warmth – the promise of: burn, burn, burn – everything…_

_Explodes._

And then she is awake. Sweat trickles down her forehead, her skin is feverish, and the quilt has been kicked to the floor. And Chloe can feel the fires of yesterday threatening to consume her.

* * *

The next day there is some huge announcement being made at the steps of the Lexcorp building and the media is gathered there in a frenzy. From out of the crowd, Chloe picks out the Daily Planet entourage consisting of her cousin, Clark and their tagalong photographer, Jimmy Olsen. She doesn't bother to go over and say 'hello'. And when Lex steps out onto the specially made podium and all eyes are riveted on his immaculate form, Chloe notices how Clark's eyes narrow. Something akin flickers in Lex's eyes – and it is like, even in this crowd, they are conducting some silent warring conversation.

But she isn't there to watch them. She's not there to watch Clark or even Lex, whose voice booms through the loud speakers as he begins his announcement. Instead, Chloe turns her back on the proceedings and scans the mass of people, looking…

There's a tap on her shoulder and it looks like her informant has found her first. He looks nervous and edgy and his voice squeaks every now and then as he whispers, "Ms Sullivan, I have what you need."

Chloe offers him a bright, brilliant smile to calm his nerves, but also because she's thoroughly grateful and because his words are music to her reporter's ears.

Her wide, lips stretching, teeth baring grin is the last thing he sees before a shot rings out and he tumbles down onto the concrete pavement.

It all becomes a blur of screams and shouting and a swarm of reporters in a flurried stampede. Chloe gets pushed and shoved and trampled on too many times to count but she doesn't really notice, except for mild moments of irritation, as she crawls over to her fallen informant and frantically searches his body.

He is wearing a dark brown trench coat that Chloe sifts through, and it is really too clichéd for words – she wonders if the too obvious trench coat was his downfall, his giveaway. Going through the coat's pockets, there is so much blood on her hands and Chloe knows that she's contaminating a crime scene. But she's come too far to stop now. So her dark, sticky fingers brush across the silky inner lining of the trench coat until she feels the fibrous texture of recycled paper.

She folds and tucks the paper deep into her jean pocket and starts to stand up when instinct and a dark flicker in her periphery – too far away to be distinct, to be anything more than a flicker – warns her to drop to the ground. Her face is squashed to the concrete as she hears another shot ring out, sees a flash of red and blue dashing about. The sirens come soon after and the cheers and the clicking of cameras as Superman saves the day, again.

Chloe's about to heft herself up when a familiar hand comes into her line of vision, offering help. She studies the proffered hand – its perfect bone structure, its smooth skin, its short nails – and remembers a time when she hadn't hesitated to take it. Now, she stands up on her own and greets, "Lex."

"Chloe," he returns. "I didn't know you were back in Metropolis."

"Not many people do."

"I'd say you were looking well but…" he gestures at her – smeared in blood and dirt and city grime. "Let me take you to my personal physician. You need to be looked at."

"Thanks but I'm fine," Chloe says, brushing Lex off. "I've got to go."

"Chloe," Lex says, grabbing her shoulder in protest. "I really don't think you're in any condition to go anywhere. You should at least let me and my driver take you to the hospital."

"Really, I'm fine. Besides, there was an assassination during your media conference. Shouldn't you be under lock and key?"

Lex's eyes are scrutinizing, flickering to the nearby body on the pavement and back at Chloe, as he says, "My sources tell me that I wasn't the target. And my people are already taking care of any other problems that might arise from this little incident for me. Now, why don't you tell me why you're in such a big hurry to go?"

"Because what I really want to do is go home and take a shower," Chloe tells him, and there's just enough truth in her answer to satisfy Lex for now.

"Well, stay, and you can use my penthouse to clean up," Lex offers and when she doesn't refuse he turns to his personnel standing behind him, to make the appropriate arrangements.

With his back turned to her, Chloe slips away. She can hear Lex calling her name as she steps off the curb and crosses the street.

* * *

The piece of paper in Chloe's hand is splotchy and stained. The darkness of blood partially covers the handwriting but she's still able to decipher the words. She places it back into the pocket of her black suit jacket and then smoothes out the creases in her skirt. She's taken the desired shower an hour ago and the steady stream of steaming water has removed all physical evidence of the day's earlier events. But it hasn't made Chloe clean.

Now, freshly showered and changed, she's sitting on her ratty brown couch, in her grotty, messy apartment, studying her phonebook coffee table and thinking of all the changes she should make to the apartment. Get a new couch. New coffee table. Food. Goldfish. Sunflowers.

Sheer white curtains flutter about as an autumn breeze blows through an open window. Chloe closes her eyes and lets the afternoon sun shine across her prone form. When she opens her eyes, there's the familiar frame of red and blue that dons the cover of countless newspapers standing in her living room.

"What are you doing here?" she demands. And really, it's a valid question because believing in superheroes, let alone hanging out with superheroes isn't Chloe's thing. Not anymore.

"I came to check up on you, Ms Sullivan. I heard that you might have been hurt."

"Did Lex send you?" Chloe asks then backtracks when she sees the confusion and surprise in Superman's face. "Oh right, I forgot. You're arch nemeses."

"Why would Lex Luthor have sent me?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I just bumped into him right after the shooting ordeal and he offered to help."

Superman's perfect alien mouth creases into a frown and his brow furrows as he expresses his disapproval, "I wouldn't advise spending too much time with Lex Luthor, Ms Sullivan."

"What made the two of you become such enemies?" Chloe can't help but ask, because she's genuinely curious. And because she wasn't around when things got really ugly, although her cousin has regaled her with the Lois Lane version of events.

"He's a Luthor. Wouldn't you say that's enough, Ms Sullivan?"

There's a hissing suck of breath as Chloe recoils from his super powered words, his implication of another, older Luthor hitting her hard. "That's a low blow, even for you," she snaps.

His eyes turn a familiar shade of contrition and he whispers, "I'm sorry, Chloe. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," she affirms. And Chloe's just angry enough to add a jibe of her own, "And what happened to 'Ms Sullivan', Superman?"

Eyes still full of sorrow, but also regret, he returns, "What happened to Chloe? What happened to you?"

Bathed in the golden hues of afternoon light, staring at the wilted sunflowers, Chloe is suddenly too old and too wise as she says, "Don't you mean what happened to us, _Clark_?"

He blinks once and that's about the amount of surprise Clark shows at learning that she definitely knows his secret. Perhaps, because he has always known that she has always suspected. Instead, he seems more interested in absorbing her features – taking in how the sun dances shadows over Chloe's face and how delicate she seems, but tough too. Perhaps too tough and too worn and encompassed in too much flickering darkness.

"Why are you here, Clark?" Chloe asks again, and she sounds so tired. "Did Lois send you?"

"No," he shakes his head. "This has nothing to do with Lois. Or Lex. Or anyone else. It's about us. It's about me being worried about you. It's about me missing you."

Clark says the last part so shyly, it's almost like they're fifteen again and he's seeing her in a different light and tentatively taking her hand from across a coffee table. Chloe's surprised when she realizes that he's now sitting next to her and his left hand is now curled over her right.

"One day you were here," Clark continues, "and the next day you were gone and you never gave me a chance to say goodbye. You never gave me a chance to tell you…"

She cuts him off before he can finish his sentence, lightly pressing two fingertips over the softness of his mouth. "Don't," she tells him. "And I had to leave. There are things I had to do. Things I still have to do."

"Is that what today was about?" he asks. "I know you were the gunman's target. Is this about your father? About Lionel? And Lex? Because I can help."

Chloe tugs her hand out of Clark's grasp and dips it into the pocket of her jacket. She can feel the paper and the bumpy indentations of the heavy handwriting. Writing that is a lead to another big, international scandal and another truth waiting to entangle Chloe. Writing that has nothing to do with her dad or Lionel or Lex or Lois or Clark or Metropolis, but was somehow seeded – a long, almost forgotten, time ago – by all of them.

In her brief moment of contemplation, Clark has somehow moved even closer to Chloe. And his face is almost touching hers. If he moved even a fraction their mouths would brush, lips meshing together. She can feel their breaths mixing, sharing each other's air. She can almost taste him, not an old remembrance but a new memory waiting to be created. If he moved even a fraction they would kiss and Chloe would let him.

But Clark is too caught up in the shape of her mouth – sweeping curves meeting in the most endearing fashion – and lips pink and glossy that he doesn't notice that the moment to act has passed. And Chloe is standing up, moving away, and he sees for the first time the two suitcases by the door.

"You're leaving, already? Again?"

"I've got a plane to catch," she states simply.

He gets up as well and the wind blows against his red cape and the vibrant red twirls and swirls with the white of her curtains. Dressed in his blue spandex, standing so still, it seems like Clark is striking a pose – Man of Steel, indeed. With the light streaming through the window, he's haloed and beautiful and a superhero.

There's so many things Clark wants to say but super speed doesn't seem to help him when every word is stuck in his throat. There's so many things Clark wants to do but super speed doesn't seem to help him when Chloe's fingers curling around the handles of her suitcases are his new kryptonite.

Chloe steps out of her apartment and closes her door. Clark doesn't ask her to stay and for that Chloe's glad, because it would break her heart to tell him 'no'.

**(end)**


End file.
